


A Study in Triplicate

by erebones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, case-related violence and dangerous situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock told John he was married to his work, John didn't realize how literally Sherlock had meant it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Triplicate

**Author's Note:**

> Transferring from FFN, any mistakes will be corrected shortly. <3

The front door slammed shut with an impressive bang, rattling the window frames of 221B Baker Street and causing a precariously-perched volume to slip onto the floor with a soft puff of dust.  _Someone really ought to Hoover the rug_ , Sherlock thought idly – and by "someone," he meant Dr. John Watson. However, considering the amount of force said doctor was using to climb the seventeen steps to their flat – and considering the reasons for said force, which Sherlock had deduced even as John had departed the flat half an hour earlier – he decided it was safe to assume (not  _guess_ , he never  _guessed_ ) that John would not be doing any housecleaning any time soon. Sherlock sighed, a gentle rise and fall of his ribcage from where he lay neat as a corpse on the living room couch, and resigned himself to a continuation of dust for the foreseeable future.

No sooner had he coaxed a satisfactory state of acceptance from his current lethargic indifference than the door to their flat opened – rather civilly, Sherlock thought – and clicked shut again. He didn't even bother to open his eyes or lower the hands pressed prayer-like beneath his chin as he inquired, "Have a good time?"

There was an ominous quiet, broken only by the faint hiss of air being draw into tight nostrils and held for four heartbeats. Sherlock counted them in the silence, feeling the blood push nicotine through his veins, and waited.

"I think you know exactly how it bloody well went." The words were fairly restrained, on the outside. But Sherlock could hear the faint shake in the way the curse fell from John's lips, feel the creaking of the floorboards underneath carpet and rug and sofa as the doctor shifted his weight in agitation.

"You should sit down if your leg is bothering you." It was a perfectly innocuous suggestion, showing both concern and practicality in one short sentence. Sherlock was actually rather pleased with himself for mentioning it. Perhaps it would serve to calm his flatmate's stretched nerves in the interim between the strained silence and the inevitably explosive argument. Sherlock toyed briefly with attempting to guess how long John would hold out before the shouting began, and dismissed it. The time was far too short to be accurately measured without some kind of micro-unit stopwatch.

" _Why_  did you do this, Sherlock?" Right on time. "You  _bloody well knew_  what was happening, and you let me walk out and put my foot right into it. My whole sodding  _leg_ , in fact, which you can shut up about by the way, since your concern is clearly false." A short pause filled with the gritty sound of teeth forcing themselves together. "Just… what the  _hell_ , Sherlock."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock deigned to open his eyes anyway. He only just refrained from blinking in surprise. The barely-contained fury in John's voice hadn't prepared him for the look of betrayal sunk deeply into the lines of his face. He looked almost…  _lost_ : as if Sherlock had turned on him without warning mid-case and asked him to leave and never come back. Suddenly reluctant to speak, Sherlock swallowed the first bitter dregs of anxiety and opened his mouth.

"No. Actually, no, don't speak. How could that slip your mind? Or was it just manipulative on your part?" John was quieter now, but the thin vein of calm running through his voice had melted away, leaving a tightly-wound iron coil of anger in its place. "God, Sherlock. When you said you considered yourself married to your work, I didn't think you meant it  _literally_." John tugged his fingers through his short-cropped hair and turned away. "I'm going upstairs. Don't bother trying to talk to me for at least twelve hours."

The  _snick_  of the door slipping shut behind him was terribly anticlimactic, and Sherlock felt his body sag back into the cushions of the couch without asking for permission. Alone in the suddenly empty room – it hadn't seemed quite this empty five minutes ago – Sherlock looked up at the ceiling and muttered, "Lestrade and I are not  _married._  We're shagging. There's a clear distinction there, John, if you'd care to examine it further."

But John wasn't there. John was upstairs, banging around in the half-bath they'd recently outfitted with a cramped shower, and couldn't hear a word Sherlock had said. Somehow, Sherlock didn't think it would make much difference if he had. 

* * *

 

In his defense, Sherlock hadn't really expected John to react the way he had. Or at least as… strongly. John had always displayed a healthy sense of humor ( _"Nothing. Just… welcome to London."_ ), from the mundane warmth of their kitchen to frigid Thames-side crime scenes; surely, Sherlock reasoned, he would find the whole situation somewhat amusing. Perhaps his flatmate would be a bit ruffled, a touch annoyed, perhaps even a smidge vengeful. Nothing more terrible than a few days with no tea, or a skipped cleaning day, or – at the very worst – an experiment getting "accidentally" thrown out.

But this. This was something different altogether.

"It's not my fault he's so thick," Sherlock muttered, swinging upright abruptly from the couch and leaning his elbows on his knees to gaze across the room to his skull. "Anyone with half a brain and one eye could tell."

Even as he said it, he knew it was unfair; but the deeply-rooted knot of childishness twined into his psych rejected it, pushing it away, and he sank his fingers deeply into his curls and  _pulled_. Why, oh why, did his flatmate have to be so  _stupidly, obstinately_  difficult? Sherlock growled under his breath, just loud enough to almost miss the electric buzz of his phone where it lay forgotten in the kitchen. He held still, breath hovering unbreathed in his lungs and throat.

_Bzzt._

With a satisfied huff, Sherlock swept from the couch and into the kitchen, stalking like an elegant stork, all legs and arms and arched neck. His phone only ever buzzed twice for one person. Scooping the phone from the counter, he slid the screen from the keypad with one brisk flick of his thumb.

_Is John there? He seemed a bit off when he left. L_

"'A bit off'?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, fingertips already flying over the keys.

_That's putting it mildly. Yes, he's here. What in God's name did you do to him? SH_

The answer was almost immediate.  _I didn't do anything! Maybe that's the problem. L_

Sherlock scowled, and resisted the urge to send the sudden explosion of unrelated letters he'd mashed onto the keypad with an errant thumb.  _I'm a genius consulting detective, not a fortune-teller. What. Happened. SH_

Almost as soon as he'd fired off the text, his phone began to buzz steadily.  _LESTRADE_  flashed across the screen in pale bluish-white. With a sigh, Sherlock let his thumb slide across the  _accept_ , and brought the Blackberry to his ear.

"Couldn't manage to text it to me, could you?"

A sigh crackled through the line, and Sherlock could picture him perfectly: rumpled suit, phone to his ear, other hand scrubbing through short silver hair, sprawled on his couch in his flat. They'd finished the case early this morning – around four a.m. to be precise – and Sherlock could practically see his weary face in the reflective blur of the window he stood in front of, all drawn lines and dark brown eyes drooping with weariness.

"It's a bit of a long story, Sherlock. I didn't fancy wearing my thumbs down trying to type it all out."

Something warm and safe spread like a hot water bottle through Sherlock's body at the sound of Lestrade's voice, and he felt the stiff set of his shoulders ease minutely. "Fine," he said crisply, trying to hide the affection in his tone. Greg would see right through it, of course, but he had to at least make a token attempt. "Do tell."

Another sigh, with a deeper-throated groan hovering in the background. "Christ. I think it was the most awkward thing I've ever done – except for getting the 'hurt him and I'll ruin your life' talk from Mycroft. Did he say anything, before?"

"Said he was going for a beer or two with you," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "Seemed harmless enough."

"But?" The word was almost a growl, and it sent a spark down Sherlock's spine that was definitely not warm and fuzzy.

"I… had my suspicions," Sherlock admitted reluctantly, slumping against the counter.

"Suspicions? Bloody hell, Sherlock, and you didn't even say anything?"

"I didn't know he was going to actually try and pick you up," Sherlock snapped. "He's been interested – don't look like that, Lestrade, I get enough of that at crime scenes – he's had a  _slight crush_  on you for a few weeks, but John is singularly good at keeping things from me. If I'd had the tiniest doubt that he had anything in mind today other than friendship, I would have stopped him."

There was a slight pause, and Sherlock's stomach dipped abruptly with nerves before Greg's voice reasserted it. "I don't believe you. You'd keep quiet just to see what would bloody well happen. And I won't ask how you know what my expression was, I really don't want to know."

"For heaven's sake, Greg, I've known you for years," Sherlock said smoothly, choosing to ignore the first part of that statement. "Of course I can predict the expression on your face." It had started out brisk and disdainful, but somehow when Lestrade's given name slipped out, the words turned thick and syrupy with unrestrained affection. Sherlock made a face and cleared his throat. "So you went for drinks. Then what?"

"There was a match on, rugby, which we both played at uni, so we watched that for a while. Had a good discussion about the teams and the bollocks ref. Thought he might be flirting, but I didn't want to jump to conclusions – that's your area, not mine."

Sherlock gave a brief huff of derision, but didn't say anything.

"Anyway, as we were leaving, he asked if I wanted to go for coffee sometime. It seemed innocent enough, but… well, he holds his liquor well, for being so short, but I know the look on a man's face when he's blatantly interested, and John definitely was. It… gave me a bit of a turn. I wasn't expecting it, really, I thought he knew. About us. So I blurted out something about how I thought he knew I was going with you, and he turned absolutely white. I thought he was going to keel over for a second." He sighed again, and Sherlock could hear, faintly, the rasp of calloused hands on stubble –  _firm, strong hands, warm hands, so warm on his skin and rough in all the right places–_  "Then he made some weak excuse and took off. I wanted to apologize, to say something, but I had no idea what. I thought he  _knew_ , Sherlock. So then I got a cab and came home. End of story."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his fingers drift lazily to his mouth as he turned the problem over in his head. At first he didn't realize Greg was calling his name, his musings blocking out everything else, but then  _SHERLOCK_  was shouted into his ear, and he jumped violently. The phone leaped from his hand and skittered across the counter before he managed to grab it and snatch it back from the edge.

"Greg?"

"Christ, Sherlock, you can't just drift off like that," Greg snapped, a touch shakily.

"I was  _thinking_ ," Sherlock muttered rebelliously.

"Yeah, well, it's been a rough week." There was a broken pause, and then Greg spoke again, softer. "I want to see you."

Something clenched in Sherlock's chest, and he rubbed at his sternum absently. Emotions were so inconvenient. Fortunately, Greg more than made up for it. "I want to see you, too. Do you…"

"Come over. If John doesn't mind," Greg added in a stammer. "Is he…?"

"He's in his room," Sherlock replied dryly. "Apparently he's not coming down for twelve hours. I'd say we have time." He sprang upright and strode for the door, snatching up his coat. "I'm leaving now."

"Wait – what?" The alarm in Greg's voice gave Sherlock pause, and he wavered halfway down the stairs.

"Change your mind already?"

"No, it's just – the flat's a mess,  _I'm_  a mess, God, I can't remember the last time I changed my shirt…"

Sherlock barked a laugh and continued down the stairs. "Greg. Please. We've known each other for almost six years. I know what you're like after a rough case, it's hardly going to scare me off  _now_."

"Yeah, all right. See you soon then, wanker."

A perfunctory farewell, and Sherlock was tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket and swirling out the door, leaving the staircase quiet and still behind him. But not quite empty. Two floors up, John sank to the top step and laid his head against the wall, hair still wet from his shower and the corners of his mouth pinched unhappily.

 _I've never heard him call Lestrade "Greg" before_ , he thought, and pressed a fist into the sour ball of envy sitting heavily in his stomach.

* * *

 

_Sherlock could easily remember the first night he and Greg slept together. It was burned into his memory, incised onto the inner curvature of his skull, and he knew somehow that even if he'd wanted to delete it, it would refuse to disappear._

It was after the Lawson girl case. It was the first real lead to Moriarty they'd had since the pool bombing three months before, and Sherlock threw himself into it with all his wits and resources. John, with his healing leg, was out of the action, though he did his best to stimulate Sherlock's thought processes via text from 221B. The murderer-cum-rapist – because that was the kind of case it was, the horrifying, depraved kind, where the killer left a string of mutilated, violated corpses in his gruesome wake – led them on a merry chase through London. They caught him in the end. But at what a price.

Sherlock still broke out into cold sweats thinking about it, though he would never admit it to anyone except Greg or John. In the end, Sherlock was one step behind the killer as he snatched another girl off the streets – the oldest yet at eleven – and fled to his hidden location. He and Greg had been on their own, ahead of the usual police contingency, when they arrived on the scene. They prevented the rape, but not the murder.

Necrophilia, they called it. Psychotic breakdown, they called it.

Sherlock didn't care what fancy, politically-correct term the experts gave the creature they finally arrested. All he knew was that he had failed. He had been just a hair too slow, a breath behind at every turn, and for the first time in his extensive career, he left Lestrade's office with the jagged edges of his psyche ripped open and exposed to the bitter turbulence of his own guilt.

Alone in the deserted darkness of the midnight forest of cubicles, he leaned against the wall and trembled, trying to brace himself to keep from toppling over. For all the warmth of the well-insulated office space, he felt pierced with cold; his bones rattled icily in their paper-thin shell of flesh, and his chest squeezed mercilessly as his mouth gaped open in a futile attempt to draw air into his starved lungs.  _Perhaps_ , he thought idly,  _this is what shock blankets are for_.

"Sherlock, I thoughts you'd – oh, Christ." Strong fingers wrapped around his upper arms, drawing him down to the floor. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and Sherlock licked his lips stickily.

"I think," he whispered, impressively steady, "I'm going to be sick."

Only Lestrade's quick reflexes prevented him from vomiting all over himself and the floor. The Detective Inspector reached out and grabbed the nearest available trashcan, a brittle plastic tube stuffed with old receipts and that evening's takeaway, and yanked it toward them just in time as Sherlock fell clumsily onto one elbow and retched convulsively.

He hadn't eaten more than a biscuit or two in almost a week, so there was precious little to come up, but that didn't stop his body from trying. Utterly miserable, Sherlock curled in on himself and just rode it out, welcoming the distracting burn of his stomach muscles as bile spattered pitifully into the wastebasket. When he was done, an eternity later, he flopped back against the wall and sucked in air, utterly defenseless and too far gone to care. Lestrade pushed the basket away and pressed his roughened fingertips gently to Sherlock's cheek and wrist.

"Didn't know you'd taken up guitar again," Sherlock gasped, clinging to the tiny thread of concentration swimming past.

Lestrade didn't even have the energy to look startled. "I took it up for about a months, and then this happened. Not much time to play when I'm catnapping on your couch in between paperwork and city-wide chases on foot. Stay right here, okay? I'll be right back." He pressed Sherlock's shoulder gently for emphasis before standing. Sherlock opened his mouth to say his legs probably couldn't hold him even if he'd wanted to move, but nothing came out. Damn.

"Here." Sherlock twitched, the best his body could do in the circumstances, but it was only Lestrade, handing him a plastic cup of water. "Drink it all, okay? How long has it been since you've eaten?"

Sherlock made a face at the very mention of food, lips curling around the rim of the cup, and didn't reply.

He was in no state to catch a cab on his own, and Lestrade knew John would only worry himself sick needlessly, so he texted the man briefly ( _Case closed. Sherlock's kipping on my couch. L_ ) and supported the still-wobbly consulting detective out to a taxi. In his own flat ten minutes later, he installed Sherlock on his couch and went through the motions of fixing tea and toast. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. He'd seen plenty of horrific crime scenes in his time, some worse than those they'd uncovered during this last case; but he would be lying through his teeth if he said he'd been any less affected than Sherlock. It was with a heavy heart and leaden steps that he returned to the living room, tea and toast in hand, only to find Sherlock upright and haggard, tipped forward as if ready to bolt.

Lestrade hesitated, eyes narrowing on the younger man's ghostly pallor. "Are you going to be sick again?"

Sherlock shook his head mutely. "Need to eat," he rasped, and Lestrade saw for the first time the way Sherlock's elegant hands shook over the dark fabric of his bespoke trousers.

"All right then," he said calmly, feeling better for having someone to take care of. "Eat up. Tea's sludgy with sugar, but you look like you need it."

He switched on the telly, keeping it muted, and settled beside Sherlock on the couch. They ate and drank mechanically, not really seeing the flickering figures on the screen. The images behind their eyes were far too vivid to be ousted by the mundane, predictable dance of late-night sitcoms.

Sherlock can't remember when the atmosphere changed, taking on an electric aspect that raised the fine hairs on his arms. His mind was still fuzzy from lack of sleep and nutrition, and his earlier loss of control had sent his sociopathic self-esteem into a tailspin. He supposes, now, that it had something to do with the slow slip towards the center of the couch, the gradual press of shoulders and arms as they leaned together. Sherlock, being slumped farther down, found his head nestled in the crook of Lestrade's neck. The long, pale line of his upturned wrist was shockingly white where it pressed at the seam of their legs, and he stared hard, caught up in the hills and valleys of veins twisting beneath the skin. He twitched a few fingers experimentally, watched the leap and pull of tendons so close to the open air.

 _Maybe John's right_ , he thought blurrily.  _I should eat more._

The thought which he would consider heretic under normal circumstances seemed like a very good idea, and he smiled into the rumpled fabric of Lestrade's unwashed shirt.  _Laundered two days ago, put it on fresh but has slept in it twice since then, once on the our (John's-and-mine) couch and once at his office. Did a lot of running this evening, sweated through his undershirt, ate ravioli for dinner, can smell the garlic, lots of coffee over the past few days, it'll take a while to get out of his system –_

A brush of skin on skin, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He realized with a faint curl of embarrassment that he'd been rubbing his nose into Lestrade's rather well-muscled shoulder, smelling the sweet-sour-staleness of him. But, interestingly, the detective inspector hadn't even put up a token protest; in fact, he was sliding the tips of his fingers gently down the narrow column of Sherlock's wrist, following by touch what Sherlock had just followed by sight. The younger man's eyes were pinned to Lestrade's darker hand as he trailed the edges of his nails along the pulse-point and up to the fleshy mound of Sherlock's palm. There, Lestrade's fingertips circled the muscle of his thumb, lazy loops that sparked little pricks of sensation down Sherlock's spine. Sherlock curled his fingers inward reflexively, and then Lestrade's shorter, blunter digits were sliding up to fit between them. They fit together snugly, comfortably, pressed together like puzzle pieces on the couch, and Sherlock felt a sweet, sweet pang somewhere in the vicinity of his lower belly.

He felt more than heard Lestrade swallow, the bob of his throat barely pressing into Sherlock's curls. Sherlock tightened his fingers around the other man's, and, tilting his face slightly, nosed gently into the hollow of Lestrade's throat.

"Shhherlock –" A stammer, a drawn-out hush choked off. Lestrade fell silent with a sigh as Sherlock inhaled deeply, smelling the warm, dark, robust scent beneath the sweat and coffee and garlic, and with a laziness brought on by the sudden post-case crash, swiped the flat of his tongue neatly over Lestrade's jugular.

"You smell like a wine," he mumbled into that warm brown skin.

"Um. Thanks?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes behind closed lids, and nuzzled more firmly. "Earthy. Strong. But with… lighter undertones. Sweeter." The scent was imprinted on his memory now, and he let his tongue explore a little further. Lestrade sat quite still, allowing him his investigation; but when Sherlock opened his mouth in order to taste more skin at once and accidentally grazed Lestrade with his teeth, the detective jumped and lifted his free hand to his mouth to stifle a small, unexpected noise in his throat. Sherlock smiled, letting Lestrade feel the curve of his lips against his throat. "Liked that, did you?"

Lestrade hummed in assent, letting his head press farther back against the cushions to give Sherlock better access.

It was slow, and warm, and utterly delicious. Lestrade ended up on his back, one arm thrown over his face and the other fisted in the unbuttoned fabric of Sherlock's shirt as the younger man mouthed at his neck and ground his hips down into Lestrade's in dirty, lethargic circles. Sherlock fumbled in the tight space between them, scrabbling with their flies; but it was a useless exercise and he soon gave up, content to wrap long fingers around Lestrade's hips and duck his head to bite the detective's collarbone sharply as he came.

After, they lay sprawled together on the couch, a warm, sweaty tangle of limbs as their moist breath mingled. Lestrade's chest was firm and peppered with dark gray hair beneath Sherlock's cheek, and he let himself slip away from everything – from the case, from worrying about John, from analyzing this new and unexpected aspect of his relationship with the detective inspector – and just slept.

_This is what he thinks of as he slumps against the cab door, drumming impatient fingers on his thighs as the late-night (early-morning?) lights of London slide past his window. He's not quite involved enough in the memory to get hard, not with the tension of his confrontation with John still singing under his skin. But he knows that soon, he will stand in front of Greg's cracked-open door (he always leaves it open when he knows Sherlock is coming - saves the consulting detective having to pick the lock), and knock knobbly knuckles against the warped frame. And Lestrade will slouch to the door, all curved shoulders and threadbare jeans low around his hips, and he will greet Sherlock with a kiss that will start and never, ever stop. And for now, that will be enough._

* * *

 

John couldn't stop giggling, and it was becoming obnoxious. He turned away from the scene of the crime and stepped away, leaning against the alley wall and stuffing his fist in his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckle as his body shook with suppressed laughter.  _Entirely, entirely inappropriate_ , he hissed to himself, and leaned harder against the brick, scraping his cheek against the rough stonework in an effort to distract himself.

He had no good reason for it. Not really. Laughter was often a natural response to horrible things, and he'd been susceptible to it before on occasion, but it felt out of place here. It wasn't a particularly gruesome murder, as murders go, though it was certainly creative enough for Sherlock to have an interest, but it still felt  _wrong_. A disrespectful response to something so steeped in tragedy. And yet he couldn't seem to stop.

"John? All right?"

 _Lestrade._  And suddenly John knew why he was laughing. His shoulder jerked away unasked from the consoling touch, and he cleared his throat without turning around. "Fine. Sorry. Just – need a moment."

He could hear the confusion in the detective inspector's voice as the older man pulled away with a doubtful, "If you say so," and returned to his crime scene. Smirking half-heartedly down at his shoes, John scuffed his toe into the dirt and reflected on the untimely giggles that sprang from seeing his flatmate and his crush darting and sniping at each other as they always did, and  _knowing_  that underneath it all, they were rather desperately in love with each other.

He didn't have much time to think on it, however. Within moments of gaining control of himself, Sherlock had swept over and demanded his expertise on a medical matter. No sooner had John diagnosed the reason for the victim's abnormally swollen fingers and toes – a very specific allergic reaction, not a form of juvenile arthritis as Anderson had pronounced – than the consulting detective was grabbing his wrist imperiously and dragging him to a cab in search of a chemist.

It was a long and exhausting chase. They ended up on the opposite side of London from where the killer was, and Sherlock had to call Lestrade to meet them at the deduced location. When they finally arrived, there was nothing to be gained from stealth, and so John armed himself and followed close on Lestrade's heels as the detective inspector kicked open the door ( _that's probably going to hurt in the morning_ , said John's inner doctor), and ducked inside the dimly-lit house.

The firefight was brief but intense. The murderer was alone, and not very skilled with weapons. But she was armed and dangerous, and bullets flying in every direction can be just as dangerous – if not more so – than those aimed with intent. Sherlock got a clip across one cheekbone, a brilliant splash of red against his white face, and John had to force him to sit with his back against the couch's back to keep out of the line of fire.

"Put the gun down!" That was Lestrade, somehow sounding demanding and pacifying at the same time. "Put it down, don't make me shoot. You don't have to do this, Stacey."

John shared a wince with Sherlock from where he was crouched against the arm of the nearby loveseat.  _Bad idea._  She was too unstable – the last thing she wanted to hear was that the police knew her name.

The sound of her gun going off seemed the loudest yet, possibly because instead of pinging off floor lamps or thwacking into musty drywall, the bullet buried itself in layers of cotton and wool, and Lestrade toppled back with a grunt of surprise. John's blood ran cold, even as his brain mumbled  _bullet-proof vest, he's smart, he never goes without one when he has to arrest someone violent_ , and he was up and firing before he quite realized what he was doing. Thankfully, the doctor in him – or perhaps the gentle civilian who hated to see a woman hurt for any reason – aimed just off-center enough, and the frantic, wild-eyed young woman went dead white before falling to the ground in a faint. Blood seeped from the bullet hole in her thigh. She would limp, John's cold, inner analytical side whispered, but she would live.

He wasn't entirely sure who moved first. He couldn't remember the blur of motion, the thud of the gun dropping to the ground. Time seemed to skip forward from his half-crouch behind the loveseat, Sig smoking in his hand, to sprawling beside Lestrade's side, shoving shoulders with Sherlock in a fight for space.

"Hands off!" he snapped, when Sherlock refused to let up. He grabbed the man's wrists and held them tight enough to grind the bones together, staring him down. "I'm a bloody _doctor_ , Sherlock, you have to let me do this!"

Sherlock looked as white as the murderess sprawled out behind them, now surrounded by several paramedics and a constable, but he sat back slowly on his heels, eyes burning. John suspected his flatmate had more than a few choice words he wanted to share, but the message on the doctor's face was clear:  _now is not the time._

With brisk, efficient hands accustomed to the insane whirlwind of a mobile hospital unit, John unbuttoned Lestrade's white shirt and yanked up the tee underneath.

"Oh thank God." It was a two-toned gust of breath from two throats, and John spared Sherlock a quick smile.

"He always wears a vest," Sherlock muttered, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "Always, always, but it only takes one time to forget…"

John didn't bother replying, simply pressing palms and fingertips over Lestrade's prone body as he double-checked his findings. Beneath the vest, a pea-sized bruise had already formed above the third rib, and the reddish tinge creeping over the surrounding flesh said that there would be a lovely palette of colors there later. As he prodded careful fingers beneath Lestrade's pectoral ( _rather well-developed, no, shut up John, I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant: I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk…_ ), the man in question made a sort of gargling sound, muffled by his tongue, and opened bleary eyes.

"Welcome back," John said, grinning. "Hit your head, did you?"

"Christ," was the eloquent reply. Lestrade licked his lips a few times and tried to sit up, but John shook his head and pressed him back.

"Ah, ah, not so fast," he cautioned, nipping a penlight from his pocket and leaning forward to check the detective inspector's pupils. "Full name and the names of your parents?"

"Greg –" He stopped, working his tongue and scowling. "Fuck, that thing is  _bright_. Gregorio Emile Lestrade. Mum is Carol Elisabette, my dad's Giorgio Benedict, I'm forty-four and I was born in Surrey. Happy now?"

"Very. No concussion that I can see, but I'd recommend taking it easy for a few days." John put away the penlight and sat back, running a hand over his face. Everything had happened so quickly he hadn't had time to panic, but now the tell-tale tremor was back in his hand, and he suspected that when he tried to stand, his leg wouldn't be particularly amenable.

A muffled sound brought him back from his glum thoughts, and he glanced down just long enough to flush bright red and look away again. His patience apparently having run out, Sherlock had bent down and was pressing a tender kiss to Lestrade's mouth. With the detective inspector's shirt gaping open and Sherlock's pale fingers sliding up over the veritable sunset spreading across Lestrade's darker skin, it was all John could do to rein himself in. Forcing down the sudden deluge of fantasies popping up in his head, he levered himself to his feet and went to check on how the paramedics were getting on with the still-unconscious killer.

* * *

 

"You know," John said later, as they climbed into a cab and Sherlock rattled off  _221B Baker Street_  like it was his own name, "you could… bring him around, sometimes. You don't have to keep it a secret anymore."

Sherlock's sharp eyes darted in his direction, though John kept his face carefully turned toward the passing lights blurring through London's inky blackness, an unending Catherine wheel of fire and brilliance. They played over his face fleetingly, the shadows dipping and curving as they followed the lines in his face like a caress. Sherlock's hands twitched in his lap, and he had the sudden urge to reach out and follow the contour of John's cheek, the spider-silk edges of his mouth and eyes as they shone reflected light like stars.

"Lestrade?" he asked, rough and abrupt, forced out suddenly when he realized he'd spent far longer than necessary watching his friend's face instead of answering.

John's mouth quirked, though Sherlock could only see the near corner of it. It was a bland smile, but he could read the unhappiness underneath in the curl of John's fingers and the slight tension in the curve of his jaw. "Greg."

Sherlock blinked, startled. "Come again?"

"You call him Greg. Don't pretend he's just 'Lestrade' to you, Sherlock." His words had a bite to them that Sherlock had never heard before, and he leaned back in his seat so John couldn't see the hurt that flickered into his face, reflected back at him through the opacity of the tinted glass. Sherlock coverd the unwanted emotion with a sniff, and turned away to gaze unseeing out his own window.

"Honestly, John, it's hardly a secret that you're still sore that Greg isn't  _on the market_. I was trying to play the good little flatmate and not bring him 'round to rub your face in it like a bad puppy. But if you'd prefer to have your pride stomped on with more regularity, then by all means, I'll have him over for dinner and a shag tomorrow."

It was spiteful, and cruel, and Sherlock regretted it immediately. His lips cracked, earth scorched in the desert heat, but the apology sitting dank and heavy on his tongue wouldn't come out.

Beside him, John was stiff and cold, and Sherlock's throat tightened miserably. With Greg going to the hospital to double-check John's diagnosis, he'd been hoping for some late-night, adrenaline-fueled "bloke time," as John called it: ordering a ridiculously unnecessary amount of takeaway, flipping channels until they got bored, maybe a round of see-how-many-pieces-of-sesame-chicken-Sherlock-can-steal-from-John's-plate that would eventually morph into an all-out wrestling match. It wasn't something Sherlock would have ever seen himself enjoying before John's arrival in his life, but now it was practically tradition after these long, late-night cases.

But on the other side of the cab there was only frosty silence, and inside his chest Sherlock can feel his heart sink impossibly low. _Just don't make me choose between them. I don't think I could bear it._

* * *

" _Oh_   _god_."

"Shut up," Lestrade hissed, clapping one hand over Sherlock's open mouth. "Do you want John to hear us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled something that was muffled by Lestrade's palm. Sighing, Greg removed the hand just in time for Sherlock to send a sinfully low groan rumbling through their joined bodies.

" _Sherlock_  –"

"Yes, all right, shutting up," the consulting detective snapped, the irritability in his voice ruined by the fact that he was breathless and quite red in the face. "It's not like he can hear us anyway, he's one floor up and dead to the world –  _oh my god,_ yes Greg, just –  _ah_  – like that…"

"For heaven's sake!" Greg muttered, reaching over his lover to grab one of the pillows that had fallen onto the floor and shoving it in Sherlock's face. "It wouldn't be an issue if you hadn't decided to jump me on the sofa."

By way of answer, Sherlock wrapped his long, wiry arms around the pillow and held it tightly as a series of long, guttural moans pushed their way out of his throat. In spite of himself, Greg grinned, and he slid his thumbs higher over Sherlock's hipbones for better purchase. For all his rapid-fire deductions and the lightning-quick speed of his brain, the consulting detective had a deep and abiding love of slow, sweet sex, and Greg was always more than happy to oblige.

He hadn't intended for there to be sex tonight, of course. Tonight was a quiet, illicit meeting to discuss what to do about John. He'd been released from the hospital earlier that day, and immediately phoned Sherlock for an update on how the boys of 221B Baker Street were getting on. Turned out, they weren't getting on well  _at all_. Which was why Greg had arrived on the doorstep, a little past midnight, to try and reassure his panicked lover that John just needed a careful handling, that no, Lestrade would never leave him, and that no, John wouldn't either – as long as everyone kept their heads and didn't go off on any more hurtful tangents.

The attempt wasn't going very well so far, at least not on the last count. Greg had barely gotten his coat off and sat down on the couch before Sherlock was crawling all over him, hands inside his shirt and lean hips pressing his own down into the couch in a rhythm that refused to be denied.

It was lucky, Lestrade reflected as he pressed up hard against Sherlock's prostate and felt the answering clench of muscles around his cock, that his lover was always completely prepared. He'd only gotten two half-formed words of protest out before Sherlock was shoving lube and a condom into his hand and growling, " _God_  I need you right now," low in his ear. And for all his self-control, the one thing Greg found hard to resist was Sherlock honestly  _begging_  for Greg to take him.

"Fuck," Lestrade whispered into Sherlock's hair, and smoothed his hand clumsily up Sherlock's thigh, hitching it higher around his hip. And again, hot breaths against Sherlock's ear and cheek, "Fuck, Sherlock, I'm –"

"Come  _on_ ," Sherlock growled under his breath, digging his fingers into Greg's shoulders as their pace increased. "Come on, faster, I – ah –  _fuck_ , Greg, oh my god…"

Lestrade pressed his lips together and buried his face in Sherlock's neck as he came, tipping his hips so far forward he was half-afraid they'd break the sofa. Sherlock followed a few moments later, legs squeezing tight around Greg's waist and his hands clawing desperately at his lover's back as he spent himself all over his stomach.

Once Greg had gotten his breath back, he rummaged around for the undershirt he'd cast aside and cleaned them both before dropping on his side between the couch cushions and Sherlock's long, lean body. The younger man rubbed his nose into Greg's chest and wound his arms around him like an overgrown cat, humming contentedly somewhere deep in his throat.

"I don't think," Greg panted, "that there's anything that could make this better."

"Hmmm." Sherlock kissed the hollow of his neck once, twice, and murmured, "I can think of something…"

"Something, or someone?" The words slipped out before he had a chance to really understand what he was saying, and Greg tried to pull them back anxiously. "Sherlock, I –"

"Someone."

Greg blinked, staring down at the unruly pile of curls. "Sorry?"

Sherlock tipped his head up and smiled, slow and sexy. "I can think of some _one_ , yes." He trailed limp, elegant fingers up Lestrade's back, making the detective inspector shiver, and arched one eyebrow. "Can't you?"

Lestrade opened his mouth and closed it again. Licked his lips, testing the weight of the syllable on his tongue before saying, "John?"

Sherlock's smile turned positively wicked, and he leaned close to trace the line of Greg's neck with his tongue. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

 

John woke up hazily, eyes blurring at the edges and his mouth stuffed with wool. He licked his lips, trying to swallow past the dryness, and inhaled.

 _Christ_.

He laid perfectly still, breathing shallowly through fluttering nostrils as his fingers scrabbled against the rough, chalky stone he was sprawled on. It was almost completely dark, but the faint glow coming from peepholes down low in front showed him an oven shape, flat and square with a curving ceiling. He closed his eyes, breathed again, but it was no use. He knew that scent. Stone, and earth, and the crackling memory of fire, traces of gas still clinging to the walls.

Clara had been a potter – still was, as far as he knew. Back before his falling-out with Harry, before Afghanistan, he remembered helping her with the heavy, unwieldy shelves, stacking them high in her gas kiln, laying out her pots and sculptures in neat rows. Then, after, with the heady roar in his ears and Clara's expert fingers working the dials, peering into the spyhole at the inner furnace as it glowed angrily, consuming everything in a brilliant yellow heat.

John's palms broke out into a cold sweat at the thought, and he moved gingerly to sit up. It was cool and impersonal here, with the grit of kiln brick clinging to his pores and the fibers of his clothing. Slowly his heart rate receded, and he thanked his lucky stars he'd woken before the person who'd put him in here had decided to turn the kiln  _on_. At least this way he had a better chance of escaping.

Theoretically.

As John followed the seam of the kiln door with his fingers, trying to find the best place to push, footsteps scraped on concrete. He froze where he was, hunched against the door. Closing his eyes to the darkness, he strained his ears.

But there was no voice. No clue except for the rasp of shoes on a dusty floor, the sigh of a coat sleeve brushing against the metal shell of the kiln. John's heart was pounding again, and the thick press of panic had a chokehold on his throat as his eyes flickered blindly, trying to follow the person's progress from inside his prison.

The light filtering weakly from the base of the kiln flickered, and there was a soft, muted  _click_  as the mystery person pushed the button to turn the furnace on. John choked, and then he was scrambling upright and throwing himself across the small space, looking through the hole at the kiln's back. The empty, yawning mouth of a gas pipe stared back.

"Wait – please! I'm in here, don't turn this on!" His voice was hoarse, but intelligible enough, and he filled his lungs for another go. "Please, who are you? Just let me out, I –"

Through the silver of space afforded him, John watched as a ratty pair of jeans appeared, followed by a bony, masculine hand, the nail beds ringed in dried clay. The hand twisted the gas valve, and John backed away, choking as the scent clogged his nostrils and coated his tongue.

"Fuck it,  _what are you doing_?" It tore itself from his throat, terrified and shedding sanity like water droplets, and John pressed himself as far back against the kiln door as he cold. He couldn't remember what Clara had said about air currents, where the heat was most likely to pool – all he could think about was getting as far away from the gas pipes as possible.

There was no reply – no vocal reply, at any rate. The man simply tapped his fingernails against the metal casing, the hollow  _thwack_ s echoing in the small space. John watched in horrified fascination through the tiny spyhole as the hands moved deftly, turning knobs with expert finesse. Then, with the deliberate pace of someone who knew what they were doing, the man reached out of sight and clicked something.

 _Whoosh_.

Flames jumped into the kiln, petering out less than three feet from where John pressed himself feebly against the kiln door. He could feel the heat from where he stood, but it wasn't unbearable. The sweat trickling down his brow and under his arms was purely from the nerves that twisted at his insides. Belatedly, he scrambled for the buttons on his jacket, doing them up to the throat and tucking his hands in his pockets. It was uncomfortable, but it might protect him from the burns that would likely begin to form. John turned his back on the roaring flames licking greedily at the air, and tried not to think about the potential damage to his face and hands.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, cloaked in heat that was rapidly growing towards the 37 degree mark. The gas pipes with their tongues of flame blocked out any noise from outside the kiln, though he suspected his murderer was long gone. John swallowed convulsively, Adam's apple pressing uncomfortably against the snug collar of his jacket.  _My murderer_. It was already a foregone conclusion.

Squeezing his eyes shut, John pressed his hands to his stomach, and felt the burn of metal against his wrist. With a leaping heart, he realized he still had his watch on. With fingers clumsy from the heat, he fumbled with the scorching metal and dropped it hastily to the ground. It was getting harder to breathe, though that was no surprise with the flames taking up all the oxygen…

John's heart stopped cold. Snatches of conversations came back to him, of Clara's pleasant alto running through terms and definitions pleasantly as they stacked pottery on kiln shelves.

_"How long do you think it would take?"_

_A confused flash of green eyes. "How long would what take?"_

_"If a person was put in a kiln. How long until they died?"_

_A merry peal of laughter. "God, John, you're so morbid! Good thing you've enlisted, maybe the army will drum that out of you."_

John pressed his fingers to his eyes, trying to concentrate. His brain was swimming, and thoughts darted and leaped in his head, refusing to be pinned down.  _Think, Watson!_  he whispered to himself.  _What did she say?_

_"Really, though," John said, grinning as he hefted a large piece of sculpture into place. Even handling it gingerly, the unfired glaze left smudges of red and white on his tee shirt and the pale undersides of his arms. "How long d'you reckon?"_

_Clara cocked her head, half-concentrating on sorting the cone pack in her hand. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe three hundred Fahrenheit until they turned to ash. But the carbon monoxide would get you before the heat did. Ten minutes, tops, unless the damper was open and the air flow was considerable."_

John gasped, choking, but couldn't draw breath. This damn heat was near intolerable, but he'd withstood worse in Afghanistan. And it wouldn't even be the flames that did him in. It would be the  _bloody_  carbon monoxide.

Panic washed over him again, wordless and intense enough to throttle, and his fingers jammed themselves into the corners of the kiln without thought, seeking purchase. He pushed frantically at the door, trying to get it open, but the weight was too much, the leverage all wrong from the inside. Black spots danced at the corners of his eyes, and he was barely conscious of his fingertips scraping themselves raw in an effort to squeeze just one inch of open air between the wall and the door.

A sudden wave of dizziness slammed into him, and his head fell forward, knocking against the scalding brick. The pain stabbed through his muddled senses, jerking him from the edge of unconsciousness. He realized with a leap of hope that his forehead had knocked a brick loose. Reclaiming control of his hands, he pushed and worried at the brick in question until it fell outside the kiln with a distant crack. Eager, heedless of the way the fierce heat biting into his skin, he pressed his face to the opening and breathed in a long, sweet breath of untainted air.

Behind him, the fire hissed and rattled, seeping into his bones with an unquenchable heat. John's heart sank even as he drew clean air into his starved lungs.  _So it's going to be the heat after all_. Then,  _I wish I'd had a chance to tell Sherlock that I love him._

Faintly, in the far distance, voices. John's body trembled violently, trying to reject the heat, and the relatively cool air stung his lips and teeth as he breathed stubbornly.  _In and out, Watson. In and out._

Darkness pulled at the corners of his eyes, crept beneath his eyelids. John sagged, his strength deserting him, and then everything was blessedly, blessedly quiet.

* * *

 

"Sherlock.  _Sherlock_." Greg leaned down and gripped his lover's shoulder hard, the pressure of his fingers cutting through layers of wool and silk to leave bruises on Sherlock's alabaster skin. "Sherlock, you need to eat something."

 _No_. It was a mute whisper, spoken only through his eyes.  _I can't, Greg, not yet._

The detective inspector – and he was all detective now, with his black trench coat and the police identification in his trouser pocket – squatted in front of Sherlock, letting his hand rest on that bony knee. "I know, Sherlock. Believe me, I know. But you've run yourself ragged – you need  _some_  kind of sustenance."

Sherlock's lips parted, faintly, but he had to close his eyes before speaking. "I almost lost him, Greg," he whispered, his voice the crackle of arid wind in brittle Afghan grass. "I almost lost him. I almost –"

"Shhhh." Greg smoothed his finger over Sherlock's abused mouth, dry and scabbed from licking them compulsively for the past couple of hours. "I know. It's okay now. It's okay." The consulting detective abhorred people who repeated themselves needlessly, so it was a mark of how upset he was that he, first, said nothing about Greg's mindless assurances, and, second, was stuck in the same shock-induced mental loop that normal people fell prey to.

Giving up on  _operation: feed Sherlock_  for the moment, Greg levered himself up into the neighboring chair and slumped back against the hospital's bland beige wall. He was just so damned tired – but he couldn't seem to close his eyes, or relax his body long enough to catch a couple winks. All he could see, playing over and over on the blank screen of his own head, was Sherlock flying like a demented crow across the room, yanking fruitlessly at the heavy metal door, screaming for Lestrade to help him. Finding the door padlocked, grabbing the nearest heavy object – a wooden mallet of some kind – and slamming the lock repeatedly until it snapped, dragging the door open, the heat blasting them in the face as John's crumpled body sagged out into the open air.

Greg realized his hands were trembling, and he forced himself to sit forward and clasp them, even though all he really wanted to do was curl into a ball on the floor and let himself spasm away the cares built up on his shoulders like a ton of bricks. It had taken them almost too long to find John. The would-be killer had covered his tracks well, and even Sherlock's brain could work only so fast with the evidence they had to work with.

And now the crash - the post-case, post-terror high - was fading, leaving them both empty husks that whispered and trembled in their chairs like desiccated autumn leaves. Every shift in his chair, every flinch, stung his skin like it'd been scraped with a knife blade; every nerve ending was raw, and the world was too rough and sandpapery to Greg's fragile skin. He could tell from Sherlock's occasional hisses that the younger man felt the same way.

Voices from around the hall corner pulled both men from their thoughts, and Greg's chest loosened the last of its stubborn knots as John appeared, limping and haggard, but quite well. He was back in his own clothes, which were scorched and covered in fine white powder, and Greg had a paralyzing breath of déjà vu; but then he watched John brushing off the attendant nurse irritably, insisting in his most army-doctor voice that he was  _just fine_ , and he let relief swamp him at last.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and then froze, not sure whether to go to John or to wait for John to come to him. John solved the dilemma with a cocked head and a quiet, unassuming, "Sit down before you fall down, Sherlock." The consulting detective obeyed, collapsing in a heap of long limbs and flapping coat, and John limped the next few steps to bridge the gap. Greg leaned toward him unconsciously, needing to feel the heat of John's body –  _alive, he's alive, not a heap of ashes_  – but restrained himself. He might be Sherlock's lover, but John was Sherlock's other half. This moment was for them.

In spite of this, however, Greg didn't feel like a third wheel at all as John set weathered, leather-dry hands in Sherlock's hair, combing through the fine black strands gently. The consulting detective accepted the touch, leaning forward until his face was buried in John's jumper (still smelling of propane and kiln dust, no doubt). Slowly, so slowly, his body began to shake: long, bone-deep shudders that passed down his spine like the ripples of fur down a cat's back.

"John." It was gasped into the man's stomach, low and raw. Sherlock's fingers crawled up John's jacket to grip the opened edges, and he pulled him closer as the shudders began to ease.

"I'm here, Sherlock," John replied serenely, as though he hadn't just been almost burned alive. His blunt fingers, wrapped in bandages to protect the lacerated skin, buried deeper into the curly mane and tugged, until Sherlock's face was tipped up and John could look directly into his eyes. "I am never going to leave. Do you hear me?" John gave Sherlock's head a tiny shake, grounding him, stilling the ghost-blue eyes that flickered and grasped and  _saw_  constantly. "I will  _never_  leave you."

"John –" It broke, cracking down the middle, and Sherlock's hands moved to wrap around John's wrists tightly.

* * *

They went home together, after John checked himself out. They didn't discuss it – nothing really needed to be discussed. Instead they piled into a cab, a quiet jumble of arms to shoulders and hands on knees, and then out again at Baker Street.

Inside, the flat was quiet and eerily empty. The floors and all available tabletop space had been overtaken with information on the case – the case for John – and the normal clutter of books, electronics, and science equipment had found itself shoved beneath furniture or into odd corners. Upon seeing the case laid out so blatantly, Sherlock flinched and went into sudden overdrive. Papers were swept from side tables and the coffee table, pictures torn down from the giant mirror, internet articles and bits of evidence shoved unceremoniously aside until every scrap pertaining to the case had been shoved out of sight.

John stayed put by the door, looking a bit alarmed, and when Sherlock finally tore the last picture into pieces and threw it into the sink (half-full with last week's dirty dishes), he cleared his throat meaningfully. "It's okay, you know. You could've left it. Let me take care of it, or something."

Sherlock, looking like a wild thing with his heavy coat askew and his curls sticking up every which way, pressed his cracked lips together mutely and did not reply.

Still hovering in the doorway, Greg eased out of his coat and took the sleeve of John's between thumb and forefinger. "I'll make tea, yeah?"

John rounded on him, dark blue eyes startled. "Oh… er, yeah. Sure. Thanks." He started to shrug out of his coat and then paused, wincing.

"Here." Greg moved without thinking, slipping his hands under John's collar and gingerly lifting the coat away from John's tender body as he drew it off his arms. "Better?"

"Yeah. I think – I don't think I can handle a shower, but I need…  _something._  To get rid of…" John's bandaged fingers twitched helplessly as he tried to find the right words, and Greg reached out to take hold of them with the utmost care.

"You want any help?"

John's mouth gaped briefly, but he closed it again with a near-audible click of teeth. "I… no?"

Greg's mouth tugged stubbornly at the corners, and he let the smile stretch briefly across his face. "Leave the door open, yeah? Shout if you need anything."

"Sure." The dirty-blond head bobbed briefly, and John let his hand slide from Greg's loose grip with something like reluctance. "Ah… thanks. For this, and for –" He stopped again, helpless, and Greg only just remembered not to clap him on the back. Instead he let his thumb brush John's shoulder gently as he nodded.

"Don't worry about it, mate. There's enough time for that later. Now go take that bath, and don't hesitate to give us a shout, all right?"

John nodded again, more self-assured this time, and disappeared for the bathroom. As soon as he'd gone, Greg let his sturdy frame sag, and he looked around for Sherlock.

The consulting detective was standing stiffly by the hearth, eyes darting between Lestrade and the doorway John had just stepped through. Greg caught his gaze and raised darkly silvered eyebrows, hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers.  _Well? What is it now?_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and, to Greg's delight, took on that particular glint they acquired whenever the younger man's mind began to make those deductive leaps that never failed to astound him. "You are attracted to John, and not just sexually," Sherlock said point blank, and immediately waved off Greg's instinctive denial. "We'd already established that, remember? No, I'm talking about something else. Something deeper, longer-lasting." Sherlock cocked his head, apparently oblivious to the dread scraping at Greg's insides (or, more likely, simply ignoring it). "You're in love with him."

"Sherlock, I love you," Greg said immediately, his words tumbling over themselves as he rushed to explain himself. "It's always been you and only you –"

"Oh, piffle. Don't give me that cheap, commercialized romantic claptrap, Greg, I hadn't thought you capable of it. I'm a little disappointed, to be perfectly honest." Sherlock's mouth, although abused, curved into a delectable smile that made Lestrade's stomach flutter. He had a sudden and nearly overpowering desire to lick it right of Sherlock's face, but the consulting detective wasn't done yet. "We've agreed we wouldn't say no to inviting John to join us. Why does that automatically rule out loving him, too?"

"Because that's unfair!" Greg burst out, irritated. Sherlock was looking far too smug for his taste.

"Unfair to whom, may I ask?" Sherlock inquired, perfectly innocent. "If you love John, and John loves you, and you love me, and  _I_  love you  _and_  John… have I covered all the bases?" he mused, breaking off to frown sightlessly somewhere behind Greg.

Lestrade heaved a longsuffering sigh, and grabbed Sherlock's elbow, towing him to the couch. "Sit down, you bloody great idiot, and just shut up a moment. The three of us – God, can you imagine it?" he muttered half to himself, ignoring Sherlock's murmured  _vividly_. "We'd be fine for a while, but what happens when we get into fights, or disagree? What if two people gang up on the third, or one of us gets jealous that the others are spending more time or money or effort on them? What would our living arrangements be? Because as much as I love you, I'm not sure I'm ready to share a flat with you. And –"

"Gregory."

Lestrade snapped his mouth shut. Sherlock only ever called him that when he was being perfectly, utterly serious. It was like their relationship safeword: the one thing Greg could trust above everything else Sherlock might say. So he shut up and sat back, arms folded and lips pressed together, and waited.

A small smile rucked up one side of Sherlock's mouth. "For once, Gregory, you're thinking too far ahead. I'm not asking you to move in with us. I'm not asking for anything long term, or permanent, or inescapable. No. Let's make this as uncomplicated as possible." He spread his hands, long and bony and yet somehow elegant in their restlessness. "I want you. I often do. And right now, I also want John. Yes, there are a good deal of messy emotions behind these things, but the fact remains that I'm exhausted, my body is still at least half in shock, and I can't seem to make myself think  _rationally_. I just... I need..."

A small furrow had appeared between his eyes, two parallel wrinkles that told Greg his lover was most concerned about the last item. In spite of himself, Lestrade grinned broadly and hooked his palm around the back of Sherlock's neck, drawing him down for a soft, damp kiss. "All right, genius. If your hankering so badly for a threesome, tell me this. How will John be able to cope with two of us when his skin's so tender he can hardly stand bathwater?"

Sherlock's silvery eyes crinkled at the corners, and he leaned down to nip Greg's lower lip sharply. "Leave that to me." And then he was up and bounding for the stairs, leaving the detective inspector wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

* * *

 

John sank deeply into the bathwater and tried not to wince. There wasn't anyone around to see if he did, of course, but it was a matter of principle. The water wasn't overly hot – he usually preferred steaming hot showers, but he couldn't quite stomach the thought at the moment – and yet it rose in chilly increments over his abused skin as he settled himself.

He'd forgone any bath gel, afraid of what it might do to his tender flesh, so the water was crystal clear, the little wavelets distorting his pinkish body as he looked down at himself. He looked, to be perfectly honest, as if he'd spent a little too much time in the sun. The fundamental equivalent of heatstroke, in the dead of winter. John closed his eyes and eased down farther so that he could duck his head under, and then rested his head back against the bath pillow. Everything burned and fizzled, his nerves twitching under his skin, and the water felt divine.

A brief smattering of raised voices, muffled by the walls and floors between them, drifted to his ears, and John was suddenly and painfully aware of how alone he was. The tap dripping in long, lazy increments between his feet was the only sound in the room. Above, the light seemed dim, shielded as it was by the angle of the tub and his position in it. The door – which he had cracked slightly in a last-minute acceptance of Lestrade's suggestion – let no light in from the landing, and the walls seemed yellowish and particularly high from this angle, leaning forward as if to close him in.

John found that his pulse was racing, and he sat up quickly in a rush of water, gasping open-mouthed as he fought the overwhelming claustrophobia. Closing his eyes only made it worse: inviting a rush of propane and clay dust to slink along his nasal passages and down his throat. With no strong scents nearby to drive away the haunting aroma, the memories were overwhelming, and he wondered briefly if snorting water would flush them away.

_Leave the door open, yeah? Shout if you need anything._

Shouting was better than accidentally asphyxiating himself on his bathwater. John shuddered, skin crawling, and forced his jaws apart to shout out. And stopped. What would he say? _Please come up here and stop the walls from falling in on me?_ It made him sound like a child. Gritting his teeth, John drew his hand from the water and pressed the bandaged fingertips against his forehead. "You're fine, Watson. Just relax. Breathe. The bathroom isn't out to get you."

But even as his voice sounded out, the room seemed to absorb the sound, the walls sucking it up like giant sponges until there was only emptiness left it its wake. John swallowed, hard, and wondered how long it would take until his wrist began to bruise from shaking so hard against the side of the tub. He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Twice more John almost called out – for Lestrade, for Sherlock, for anyone at all – and both times he choked it off, throat tightening convulsively as he fought the rising nausea. And then, blessedly, footsteps on the stairs and a light outside the bathroom, and Sherlock's long body was framed by the door's narrow opening. John wondered briefly if Sherlock wasn't Sherlock at all, but a guardian angel sent to keep him from going mad in the bathtub.

Then Sherlock said, "Were you intending to bathe yourself, or just sit in a tub of cold water all night?" and John knew it was him. The relief he felt at this revelation was more than a little alarming, but he was too tired to care.

"I was kind of going for 'cool off' and maybe sneak in the 'bathing' part later if I was up for it," John replied, the deadpan delivery tripping off his tongue with all of his usual verve. The claustrophobia retreated swiftly as Sherlock grinned and slunk into the room, eyes roving restlessly over everything.

"Soap, then," the consulting detective announced, rummaging in the cabinet for a new bar. "Shampoo, too, yes? And a washcloth. Hmmmmmm." The long, drawn-out hum rumbled through Sherlock's body as though his rangy limbs were a lightning-rod, conducting the soothing sound of it through the floor and water to John's body. In spite of himself, John's eyelids grew heavy and fell shut, and he let himself slump back against the bath pillow.

The sound of rustling cloth had his eyes shooting open again, and Sherlock spared him an arched brow. "Relax, John. I doubt there's room for both of us in that tub." Long, deft fingers rolled his trousers up to his knees and undid the buttons on his sleeves, pushing those up before he folded himself down to sit on the side of the tub. "Shove over a bit," he said, not unkindly, and then his feet were in the water, prehensile toes sliding ever-so-slightly against John's tender back.

John wasn't entirely sure why, but being stark naked in the tub with his fully-dressed flatmate right beside him wasn't embarrassing in the least. Perhaps because he was so tired. Whatever the reason, he made no move to protest as Sherlock squeezed a dollop of shampoo onto his palm and worked it into a lather before reaching out to run soapy fingers through John's hair.

"Want me to lean forward?" he mumbled, feeling his body sink further into a relaxed stupor.

When Sherlock shrugged, John felt the drag of fingers across his scalp, and he shivered pleasantly. "If you like," came the affable reply. Sherlock lifted his hands away as John eased himself upright, and then went to work with a will, somehow managing to be thorough and ridiculously gentle at the same time.

"Er – d'you mind if I join you?"

They both jerked around – Sherlock must have been really absorbed, not to have heard the footsteps on the stairs – to see Lestrade standing awkwardly in the half-open doorway. He was somehow juggling three mugs of tea and a bowl of sugar, with no spoons in evidence.

"Oh, what the hell," John slurred, feeling drunk on weariness and sweet, warm comfort. "Come on in. What's a little nudity between friends."

Sherlock's lips jerked into a poorly-suppressed half-smile, and John was certain he saw Lestrade's dark eyes running briefly over his bare, water-covered body. It could have been his imagination – but then the detective inspector glanced away, a flush creeping up his neck, and John smiled to himself as his eyes fell closed again. However unfit he felt at that moment for any kind of sex, it was nice to be noticed.

Lestrade ended up settling against the wall at the end of the tub, legs stretched out against the white enamel and his mug cupped close to his chest as he watched Sherlock work. John sipped gratefully at his own brew, the bitter blackness cut with far too much sugar. And Sherlock worked away at John's short hair, apparently endlessly fascinated with the way his fingers slipped and slid through the soapy strands. It was at least a good ten minutes before John finally murmured, "Think my head's numb now," and Sherlock reluctantly drew back.

"Have some tea," Lestrade told him, pushing the black-and-white striped mug down the side of the tub. Sherlock grabbed it without bothering to rinse his hands off, and sipped blankly, heedless of the suds that smeared all over the sides.

Setting his own mug aside, John ducked under for a quick rinse. It wasn't until he popped up again, hair streaming into his eyes as he looked between the other two men sitting so patiently, that he realized he was well and truly fucked.

Sherlock saw the change in his expression right away, and he leaned forward anxiously, hovering but not quite making contact. "John? Are you all right?"

John's mouth opened – to explain, to dismiss, to say  _something_  – but then he looked to Lestrade, his sharp silver hair softened in the low light, eyes full of understanding, and his throat closed up. Swallowing the last of his tea, the detective inspector set the empty mug on the floor and reached over the side of the tub to lay his hand gently over John's foot. The water swirled around his wrist, silvery bubbles clinging to his dark skin.

"John." It was the barest whisper, cool air trickling over the side of his face: his only warning before Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his mouth to John's wet hair.

It was warm, gentle, and most certainly not enough. John felt Lestrade's hand tighten briefly on his foot, thumb sweeping over the arch, and he turned his head to catch a kiss of his own. Sherlock's mouth was rough and abused, so John went carefully, drawing the full lower lip into his mouth and sucking ever-so-slightly. A deep, basso groan rumbled through his body, and he smiled as he dragged the pebbled surface of his tongue over Sherlock's cracked upper lip. The roughened edges of the skin pushed sharply into his mouth, and little sparks of pleasure wandered curiously down his spine as if to say  _This is interesting. Can we do this again?_

As if reading his mind, Lestrade's grip tightened on John's foot. John angled his head, dipping his tongue into the corner of the younger man's mouth so he could get a better view of Lestrade's face, and was pleasantly surprised. The detective inspector's pulse was visible where it stuttered beneath the stubble of his throat, and his dark eyes were fixed on John's tongue as it traced lazily along the contours of Sherlock's mouth. Realizing he'd been caught, Lestrade blinked rapidly and cracked a faint grin.

"Sorry… It's just, you make quite a pair."

Something giddy and unrestrained bubbled up in John's chest, and he couldn't help but echo the smile. "I imagine you do, too," he commented, sitting back slightly in invitation.

Sherlock, for once half a step behind, only blinked dazedly when Lestrade tugged him close for a warm, intimate kiss, open-mouthed and damp in the way of well-acquainted lovers. The sight of Lestrade's bristly salt-and-peppers hair brushing against Sherlock's wanton curls sent a sharper stab of desire through John's belly, and he fought the urge to hide his stiffening erection with his hands. It was a bit late for modesty now.

But not much got past either detective, even dog tired and muddled with desire. Lestrade rubbed his unshaven cheek along the high, elegant arch of Sherlock's face, eliciting a barely-audible rasp, and reached out to twine his fingers with John's.

"Done with that bath yet?" Lestrade wanted to know, gruff-voiced with the beginnings of arousal. He brought John's wet fingers to his mouth and brushed a whisper-soft kiss over the damp plasters, and John's brain stuttered briefly as he caught Sherlock's darkened gaze over Lestrade's shoulder.

"Yeah," he rasped finally, watching motionless as Sherlock reached between them to pull the plug. John was half-hard by now, and he swallowed as his flatmate's long fingers passed a scant couple of inches from his submerged cock. But then Lestrade was taking his upper arms in a firm but gentle grip, helping him upright in a rush of water, and the cold stung his member back into softness. He barely had time to shiver in the empty air before Sherlock was whisking a towel around him. The cloth, while soft, seemed to chafe his tender skin, and he tried to hide the wince that immediately leapt to his face.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured, smoothing another kiss to the side of his head. "We don't have to do anything tonight.

"Frankly, I don't think I'm up to it," Lestrade remarked, and scowled when the other two men shared a knowing smirk. "All right, very funny. Why don't we be adults about this, hmm?"

"Speak for yourself, grandpa," Sherlock shot back, digging his free hand into Lestrade's thick silver hair.

Lestrade raised dubious eyebrows. "You know you like it. What was it you called me last week? A silver fox?"

The expression on Sherlock's face pushed him over the edge, and then John was giggling, a high-pitched staccato rhythm that bounced off the walls like coins tossed into a wishing well. Huffing in mock irritation, Sherlock swept from the bathroom like some sort of vengeful scarecrow. For a moment John was afraid he'd hear the sound of Sherlock slamming down the stairs. But there were only footsteps padding across the landing, and then the click of the bedside lamp in John's bedroom.

Beside him, Lestrade grinned and muttered, "Finally back to normal, then."

"Thank God," John added. The other man hummed in agreement and wrapped an arm protectively around John's waist, pressing a chaste, almost bashful kiss to John's temple before leading him out the door to where Sherlock was waiting for them.

* * *

John woke slowly the next morning, feeling as though he were wrapped in fog. He was only half wrong, he realized as the muddle of sleep began to dissipate. He was sleeping on his stomach, which he almost never did unless he was entirely, bonelessly comfortable, his arms folded beneath his pillow and his face half-submerged in its cloud-soft depths. On his right, a solid warmth was pressed against him, calloused fingers curving over his shoulder and warm breaths puffing rhythmically against the back of his neck. A knee was settled into the back of his, and a foot fit snugly against his ankle. Even with his eyes closed, John knew it was Lestrade.

His left was another story. Hair tickled his nose, and he opened his eyes on black curls and the curving shell of an ear. Letting his eyes follow the line of one sharp cheekbone, John smiled sleepily at the wildly cocked angle of Sherlock's neck and the mouth gaping inelegantly in a soundless snore. He couldn't get a better view without craning his neck, but he didn't really have to; his flatmate's arm was flung across his back, the bony tip of his elbow digging slightly into the groove of John's spine, their legs were an algorithmic tangle. The unforgiving pressure of Sherlock's hip was wedged under John's pelvis. Clearly the consulting detective was not very good at sharing beds. The thought was somehow incredibly endearing.

John would have been content to lie there forever, wrapped securely by the two men he loved best in the world, but his bladder had other ideas. He tried to ignore it for a while; but, in the end, disrupting the peace via exiting the premises won out over the (horrifying) possibility of wetting the bed. He shifted slightly, and paused. How in God's name was he going to manage this?

A deep sigh emerged, tickling the back of his neck, and the hand around his shoulder tightened as Lestrade's deep, sleep-rough voice whispered, "If you've gotta get up, go ahead. He won't wake up."

John slid his elbows toward him, propping his head up enough to turn and meet a pair of very dark, very attractive brown eyes. The deep, worry-carved grooves of the night before had relaxed, and apart from the silver hair and the gray cloud of stubble, Lestrade looked years younger.

"He won't?"

"Promise." Lestrade's snug, perfect mouth stretched into a grin. "He may not sleep often, but when he does, he sleeps like the dead."

"That's convenient," John said, and then, because he just couldn't resist, tipped forward slightly and dropped a kiss on the tip of Lestrade's nose.

The policeman's eyebrows jerked up as if they'd been pulled by marionette strings, lending his smile an adorable air of befuddlement. "Um…"

"Sorry." John glanced away, detangling himself from Sherlock and studiously trying not to blush. "I just –" The touch of slightly roughened fingertips on his shoulder stopped him, and this time when he looked over, Lestrade met him halfway with a chaste kiss.

"Mm. Don't apologize." Stretching, Lestrade sank back against his pillow and smiled lazily up at him. "Hurry up, please, the bed will get cold without you."

"Somehow I doubt that," John muttered as he scrambled off the mattress, glancing over at Sherlock's wild, indiscriminate sprawl. The sound of Lestrade's low chuckle followed him across the landing to the bathroom, tugging an answering smile from his own lips.

He went through the motions swiftly, relieving himself and washing his hands with perfunctory efficiency. His reflection in the mirror was less lobster-like than it had been the night before, and when he patted his chest and stomach with his hands, the pain had dulled to a low ache. Not as bad as he'd expected. John made a face at himself, scrubbed a hand through his hair to straighten it, and went back to the bedroom.

Lestrade was obviously waiting for him. He'd relegated himself to the middle of the bed, his back propped up slightly against the pillow, and the corner of the duvet was turned up in invitation. John couldn't help grinning as he padded across the carpet and slid into bed, pressing close to the other man and wrapping one arm around his solid torso. From there it was pure intuition that drew their mouths together, Lestrade's fingers tangling in John's.

He tasted like stale tea and warmth, and John hummed in approval as they kissed open-mouthed, Lestrade's free hand sliding up his back to press them closer together. It was slow and soft and exploratory, and John's toes curled against Lestrade's leg as the policeman caught his lower lip and sucked gently. Wanting to return the favor, John carded his fingers through Lestrade's unruly spikes and tugged, slanting his head so that he could slide his tongue just inside the other man's upper lip.

He didn't realize he was short of breath until the tightness in his chest was squeezing his ribs near-painfully. John drew back reluctantly, resting his head against Lestrade's collarbone as he sucked in air. "Don't forget to breathe," Lestrade murmured against his cheek, laughing silently beneath him. John pressed his fingers into the divots between his ribs in retaliation, and Lestrade convulsed, scrabbling for John's own sensitive spots.

"Stop – no – stoppit!" His mouth gaped damply, gasping against Lestrade's skin as the policeman found the tender place at the curve of his belly; and then his teeth were scraping, tongue trailing a slick path across a firm, flushed nipple, and he could hear the rumble of Lestrade's groan right through the inner curves of his skull.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, the need in his groin playing with his perceptions. There were so many hands, fifty, a hundred fingers, all skittering over his skin as if they wanted to touch every inch. But then he felt the sharp, precise scrape of half-moon nails marking his shoulder blades, and he knew.

" _Sherlock_ ," he breathed against Lestrade's spit-slick skin, and he felt the trembling right down to his bones.

"John." The answer was rough in his ears, and he could feel the curve of a smile against his cheek as Sherlock pressed closer. "Not very kind of you to start without me."

A hiss escaped Lestrade's teeth as Sherlock leaned over John's shoulder and bit down, a flash of gleaming canines out of the corner of his eye. "Making up for lost time," the policeman grinned, sliding his palms down, down to dip beneath the waistband of John's pants. The brush of fingers against his arse made him shudder and arch into the contact, and then Sherlock's hips were there, pressing Lestrade's hands between them.

"What," John panted, laughter bubbling under the surface, "what the  _actual_   _fuck_ …"

"Precisely," Sherlock growled, mouthing at the stark tendons of John's neck. "At least, that's the general idea. Greg?"

"Wha – what are you asking?" Lestrade gasped, apparently enjoying the slide of John's thigh against his erection. "Because I'm really not paying attention."

John sniggered into the hollow of Greg's throat, caught in the inescapable slip-slide between laughter and lust. He decided, in a flash of intuitive need, that he really,  _really_  would prefer the latter at the moment, so when he felt Sherlock open his mouth again beside his ear, he turned his head and silenced his flatmate with a kiss. It was sloppy and half off the mark, but it was salty and sweet and just the right kind of rough.

"Oh god," Lestrade groaned, fingers tightening on John's hips.

Sherlock smirked against John's mouth and pulled away with a nip. "We're being discourteous to our guest."

"Don't feel like you have to stop on my account," Lestrade demurred, rather glassy-eyed as he slumped further against the pillows. "You two look bloody marvelous together."

"Why, thank you dear," Sherlock drawled, licking an obscene stripe up the side of John's face. "But I'm really not sure John's going to enjoy being the middle man in this scenario."

"Right, as usual," John said when Greg turned a questioning eye on him. Then, over his shoulder, "What are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock ran the flat of his hand along the tender planes of John's back and pressed a quick kiss to his spine before flopping dramatically onto the duvet beside Lestrade. With long white arms striped in blue-violet from the window-blinds, he reached out and tucked the detective inspector against his side, brushing full lips against his brow. "Come then, love. Let's show him how it's done."

"Hell,  _I_  don't know how it's done," Lestrade protested. "How is this even going to work?"

"We'll make it up as we go along," John said, settling against the length of Lestrade's body and resting his chin against the man's sternum. "Now, kiss."

Both men glanced down at him, startled, but the wicked glint in his eyes soon had them grinning. "So it's going to be like  _that_ ," Lestrade observed.

"Of course. He was a captain, you know, in the RAMC. Used to ordering people about," Sherlock told him, placing soft, sucking kisses on Lestrade's lower lip.

Lestrade shot another suggestive look in John's direction. "D'you think we could convince him to wear his dog tags for us?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose thoughtfully. "Only if he wears the matching camo knickers."

" _Sherlock_!" John exclaimed, pinching his flatmate on his well-rounded bum. "How do you know about those? Snooping through my underwear drawer?"

"Maybe," came the ambiguous reply. John would have protested, but Lestrade suddenly seized Sherlock's angular face in his hands and dragged him to his mouth for a deep, dirty kiss. John watched, rapt, as Lestrade plundered his flatmate's mouth with his tongue, fingers pressing near-painfully into porcelain skin. He could feel himself growing hard against Lestrade's thigh; but when he tried to move away, the policeman shot out a hand and grabbed his hip, holding him firmly in place. He was too busy kissing the hell out of Sherlock to actually speak, but the message was clear:  _Stay put._

John was only too happy to oblige. Absently, he could feel his pulse speeding up, the blood pounding in his temples and… other areas, his tongue heavy and salivating in his mouth. It was like watching a porno up close and in 3D, only better because he felt so strongly for both men involved. Just the thought sent a fuzzy warmth spreading through his chest, balancing the tension curling in his groin.

Sherlock gave a sudden moan, sharp and bright in John's ear, and the aforementioned tension gave a stab of near-brutal pleasure that left him gasping. Closing his eyes, John swallowed hard and lifted his hips instinctively, seeking the warm, solid pressure of Lestrade's bare thigh.

Lestrade gasped and tightened his fingers, and the last of John's self-control dissolved. With a broken moan he hitched his leg around Lestrade's waist, knee digging into Sherlock's side, and rolled his pelvis forward, thrusting strong and rhythmic against the other man.

"God,  _yes_ ," Sherlock growled, and suddenly Lestrade had a lapful of consulting detective and army doctor as all three wrestled for the best position. After some panting and moaning and more than one elbow planted in more than one stomach, they settled down: Sherlock on his back, cradling Lestrade between his knees, and John propped against the tanned slope of Lestrade's back, the mound of his erection fitting neatly into the cradle of Greg's arse. From there they set a languid pace, Sherlock leading by way of strong fingers clamped around Greg's hips. The sweet rocking sensation burned a fiery trail through John's belly, and it was all he could do to brace himself on his hands and knees, meeting each backwards roll with a forward thrust that ground his jaws together and drew low sounds from deep in his chest.

Then, suddenly, those vise-like fingers were digging into his biceps. John hissed at the pleasure-pain, almost overwhelmed, and looked up just in time to catch Sherlock's widened gray eyes and the sheen of sweat on his flushed face as he let out a strangled cry and orgasmed. John's heart caught in his throat at the sight, and he reached out to press his hand to the side of Sherlock's cheek. It was damp and flushed under his fingers, and he had a sudden urge to lean down and see what it tasted like. But his flatmate turned his face into the contact, smiling through the post-orgasm haze, mouthing something against the skin that he couldn't quite hear.

 _I love you_.

Long, thin, violinist's fingers came up to squeeze John's, and then Sherlock was squirming, trying and failing to be a prat while still eyeballs-deep in the afterglow. "All right, off. I'm about to suffocate with you both on top of me. Go over there and shag or something." He waved his other hand limply toward the other side of the bed, and John had to stifle a laugh in Greg's shoulder at the twisted half-smile fighting with a frown for dominance of Sherlock's face.

"We love you too, 'Lock," Greg said fondly, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's temple before sliding out from between them.

The full transformation to scowl was instantaneous. "Don't call me that," Sherlock snapped, eyes flashing embarrassedly towards John.

"Do you really call him that?" John asked interestedly, moving to kneel between Greg's knees.

"Only in the bedroom," Greg confided, earning himself a huff from the other half of the mattress.

"I think it's sweet," John said, sliding his palms up Greg's thighs to play with the edge of his pants.

"That's what I was afraid of," Sherlock growled.

Greg's snicker turned into a cut-off gasp as John trailed the pad of his thumb over the damp spot over his erection. He grinned and did it again, following it with a firm push of his palm against the warm hardness, and Greg moaned.

"Draw it out," came Sherlock's interested murmur, barely audible over the rasp of skin on cloth as John continued to fondle him. "He likes that. Perfect. Now lean down and kiss him as you put your hand inside his pants – yes, just like that."

Part of John wanted to tell Sherlock to fuck off and let him figure it out for himself, but only a small part. The rest of him was getting extremely turned on by the low, rumbling directions breathed into his ear like a secret. The irony wasn't lost on him –  _always following Sherlock, even in the bedroom_ – and he smiled as he sank his mouth over Greg's, drawing out the other man's tongue and sucking curiously even as he pushed his hand down under the cloth. The flesh that met his hand was stiff and straining against its confinement, so he jerked the fabric down with a twist of his wrist, wrapping his fingers around the base of Greg's cock and sifting through the coarse hair there. At the full contact, Greg gave a strangled shout and arched off the bed, nails biting into the coverlet.

"That's it," Sherlock breathed, his voice ghosting warmly over the side of John's face. "He's so sensitive, it's beautiful."

John moaned, rocking against his own forearm as he worked Greg smoothly, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the other man's corded neck. It was  _incredible._ The combination of Greg's broken sounds and Sherlock's deep whispers was driving him round the twist.

"I want to fuck you," he managed to choke out, biting the words out into the mound of Greg's shoulder. "Please, let me –"

"Yes, oh god, anything John, please –"

"Fuck him," Sherlock hissed, and John could hear the grin in his voice. "Right now, John, he'll come without even being touched. His prostate is absolutely  _delightful_."

It was, John decided moments later. With his fingers slicked and medically precise, he breached the taut ring of muscle, sliding in easily to find Greg's prostate. Lestrade jerked beneath him, mouth gaping in a soundless 'O,' and John slipped a second finger in. He was remarkably loose already, which said a lot about how often he and Sherlock fucked, and John took advantage of it, twisting his fingers sharply and scissoring them with an abruptness that wrung a gasping whine from Greg's throat.

It had been a while since John had done this with a man, but he was plenty familiar with the process. With Greg opened to his satisfaction, legs sprawled wide for him, John slid a condom over his aching cock and took himself in hand, pressing against the spot where his fingers had been moments before. There was the slightest resistance; and then he was through, sliding easily into Lestrade's taut heat.

The rhythm he set was slow but deep, each roll of his hips ending in a sharp jab against Greg's prostate. Every thrust forced a hitched gasp from the man beneath him, and John pressed against him harder, digging his fingers into Greg's hair and pressing hot, melting kisses to his stubbled mouth. He could feel Greg's muscles tightening around him as he neared the edge, everything in John's being focused on their point of connection; his own thrusts were becoming sloppy as the end rolled toward him like a wave, and he pressed his fisted hand into the mattress for better leverage.

Then, unexpectedly, moist lips on the back of his neck, fingertips spidering down his spine. "Come on, John. Finish for me." It was low and throbbing against his skin, and John cried out into the sweat-dampened breadth of Greg's chest as he came in convulsive shudders. Greg, already at the end of his tether, was quick to follow.

 

* * *

"Oh my god." John stared at the ceiling, still warm with the sweet dregs of afterglow, and tried to absorb what had just happened.

A grunt against his chest drew his attention from the broad swathe of white, and he nuzzled the top of Sherlock's head absently. "What is it now?" his flatmate inquired acidly. "You're not having some kind of sexual-identity breakdown, are you?"

"No…" He fell silent for a moment, distracted by the smooth sweep of Greg's hand on his belly. Then Sherlock nudged him with one bony shoulder, and he snapped back to the present. "No. I just can't understand why I'm so lucky. I mean, forty-eight hours ago I thought I was going to die, and now…" Suddenly overwhelmed, John scooted down to tuck himself against Sherlock's side, drawing Greg's arm over his waist like a blanket. His heart constricted, heavy with a depth of feeling he couldn't express, as Sherlock pulled him closer and Greg bent his head to nuzzle the back of John's neck affectionately. "Now I'm not," he finished lamely, mumbling into Sherlock's chest.

"It's gonna be one hell of a ride," Greg observed.

Sherlock huffed. "Well that's the fun of it, isn't it?"

Greg rolled his eyes, eyelashes brushing against John's nape. "Fun. Yeah. Like corpses and dismemberment are fun."

Under John's ear, Sherlock's chest rumbled with laughter. " _Exactly_."


End file.
